


i'm falling apart in your hands again

by ehonauta (banzai)



Series: the saddest times and the worst times suited you well [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Casual Sex, F/M, Multi, Multiple mentions of vomit, References to Child Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, brief incestuous thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banzai/pseuds/ehonauta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I feel like this fic needs some explanation. when-it-rains-it-snows and I got into a rambly conversation about the horrifying ot3 possibilities of Kate/Clint/Barney Barton, which is a concept I object to so thoroughly I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So she elaborated and I got trampled by the plot pony and the first chapter of this came out.  Then the characters wanted to keep talking and I let them. This is a really dark and unhappy fic, people, and I'm sorry. It's been looked over but all mistakes in grammar, spelling, or continuity are mine. </p><p>Work and chapter titles from Shakira's "Objection"</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. i love you for free and I'm not your mother

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this fic needs some explanation. when-it-rains-it-snows and I got into a rambly conversation about the horrifying ot3 possibilities of Kate/Clint/Barney Barton, which is a concept I object to so thoroughly I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So she elaborated and I got trampled by the plot pony and the first chapter of this came out. Then the characters wanted to keep talking and I let them. This is a really dark and unhappy fic, people, and I'm sorry. It's been looked over but all mistakes in grammar, spelling, or continuity are mine. 
> 
> Work and chapter titles from Shakira's "Objection"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate

_Done it now, Barton. Walking around like you’re some kind of person. … You go away and nobody dies on it. Who’ll miss you? Avengers’ll manage. Hell, they won’t even notice. -_ Clint Barton (Hawkeye #6)

He’s tired. He’s so goddamn tired. He’s tired of doing too little too late. He’s tired of fucking up good people’s lives when he tries to help. He’s tired of making people miserable just by being around them.

Somebody get him another drink.

>>\------>

 

She’s got this.

There’s at least four guys subtly angling for her attention, scattered all over the bar. The bartender’s given her a couple of appreciatively speculative looks but she’s sure that’s more to do with the look of her Tumi wallet (utilitarian, but quality) than her looks. (The bartender is never really flirting with you. Kate knows better.)

Now it’s just a question of finding the one that’s the most disposable looking. She made the mistake of picking up a guy with a gorgeous mouth and A+ hipster jeans a couple of weeks ago without vetting his body language first and ended up with a cuddler. She takes a sip of her Jack and Coke and shudders thinking about it.

There’s a good candidate hanging out by the high-tech jukebox: Hint of eyeliner, check. Slim hips, just enough muscle to keep it interesting, check. Trustafarian full-sleeve tats, check. She watches him out of the corner of her eye and he manages to stay in her field of vision while _obviously_ hitting on other girls.

Yeah, he’ll do.

She finishes her drink and cocks her head at him. He lets her stew for a minute or two but dutifully trots over. (Boys are so _predictable_ sometimes.)

She runs through the routine. Tuck the hair behind the ear, laugh a little too loud, order a more macho drink than she really needs to. Lean into his space, compliment his whatever, touch his arm.

Twenty minutes later she’s got him in the back of a cab and they’re on their way to Clint’s.

She feels bad, sometimes, about bringing this into his space - it’s not like she ever asked, and he’s not like her friends from school (well, “friends”) who understood the need to fuck around in other people’s living space. It’s just...you don’t make a mess on your parents’ turf. It’s too much hassle for not enough return. Once she took a guy home that kinda looked like Adam Levine (if you were really drunk or had terrible vision) and somebody took a picture and it ended up in the Post. Her dad actually _called her_ and it was basically a complete nightmare. So now she just goes to Clint’s. It’s cheaper and less risky than renting a room and also, who wants to be that guy?

Clint’s a friend; he understands, she’s sure. He’s even been a super nice host and stocked up on the good liquor lately.

So now it’s 2 a.m. and she’s a little sore in all the right places and Greg or Geoff or Graeme or whatever is sleeping soundly. She probably ought to do something about that but, god, this bed is so _comfortable_. She curls into a cozy little ball and mashes her face into the pillow and _man_ she ought to figure out what detergent the laundromat Clint takes his stuff to uses because this pillow smells _amazing_ , like something warm and peaceful. Is peaceful even a smell?

Kate thinks she might be drunk, a little, still.

She really ought to kick Gary out before Clint gets home. No sense in being tacky. But then when she pokes one of the raw scratch marks on his back (she loves leaving those; a little part of her always wants to go “nyeah-nyeah, Kate was here”) until he wakes up, he just rolls over on top of her and then, well, if he’s going to continue to be useful and she’s just so fucking _content_ to stay in this bed, she might as well just go with the flow, right?

Right.

So whatever. She has some fun, and points Glenn to the door. Except instead of letting himself out quietly like he’s supposed to, there’s some kind of scuffle at the door and Lucky is barking and _what the hell_ there is a red-headed _even bigger_ version of Clint standing in the door.

She’s popped open the collapsible bow Clint left on top of the fridge (really?) and has an arrow trained at his throat. Clones are never good news. Family’s even worse.

(Gene scampers. Good riddance.)

“Hey hey, honey, I’m just here to see my baby bro. Clint Barton? He’s supposed to live here. I’m just looking to maybe couch-surf a few nights.”

“Don’t call me honey, ass. Who the hell are you?”

“Charles Barton. You can call me Barney.”

She makes a face. “Like the old show with the dinosaur?”

He stares at her blankly for a minute. “Christ, how old are you? I know he’s kinda funny about women but I didn’t peg him for a cradle-robber.”

Kate makes a super exaggerated yuck face. “Oh my _god_ why would I sleep with _Clint?_ ”

“Hey now, no need to get offended, I’m just going along with the evidence in front of me. His apartment, no him, his bow or something _really_ like it, you in your panties and a tshirt and a very nice grouping of hickeys on your --”

“Yeah, I got it. Shut up. We’re friends. Work buddies. Peers or whatever. He lets me use his apartment sometimes.”

He cocks his head back to where Gabe went running. “You bring other guys here when he’s -- no, you know what? I don’t wanna know. Can you maybe put the bow down and let me come drop my shit off? The cab fare from LaGuardia was gonna be like $40 and so I took the subway and hoofed it.”

She’s off-balance suddenly. This is Clint’s safe space, so this is _her_ safe space, but she depends on Clint to make it safe for her. It’s not enough hers for her to be negotiating this.

“Uh, yeah come on. Just… I’m gonna call him. He should have been back by now anyway.”

“I texted him when I landed. He said he’s out with friends.”

Kate frowns. “He doesn’t have -- ugh. Maybe he does tonight. Whatever. Just sit down where I can see you, and wait.”

Barney (seriously?) comes in, drops his military-looking duffel, takes a seat on the couch. His eyes flick over her, but it’s not sexual, it’s more… assessing. She finds that infinitely more worrisome. Black Widow had given her that look the first time they met and that’s not a good thing to be reminded of.

There’s a gun in the silverware drawer. (She calls it that loosely. There’s maybe three mismatched spoons and a plastic spork inside.) She doesn’t like guns but it’s not like she can’t use one. She sidles up to the counter and keeps the handle near her right hand so she can lunge for it if she needs to.

She grabs her phone and dials Clint. He picks up and says something incomprehensible over the truly impressive amount of background noise.

“Damn it, Hawkeye, are you in another shitty bar?”

He’s talking again, but she can’t hear it. She just hears the tone of his voice (lonely, a little desperate) and the long slurring s’s and sighs.

“Your brother’s here. Come home in the next 20 minutes and explain this shit or I’m coming to get you.”

She sees Barney stifle a laugh.

What follows is the most boring, uncomfortable 20 minutes she’s experienced in _at least_ a month. They eye each other warily and completely fail to make small talk.

Twenty-five minutes or so later, there’s a scraping at the locks and then Clint is literally falling through the door. He’s apparently with it enough to keep from just faceplanting, but he lands hard on one hip.

“Awww, floor…” he whines.

Kate and Barney jump to help him. It takes some wrangling, but they get him upright, get the door closed, and then there’s a flurry of directions and explanations and Barney’s manhandling Clint upstairs to the shower. Kate goes to straighten the bed, remembers her evening and thinks better of it, and fishes a spare set of sheets out of the wardrobe. As she’s shaking them out and remaking the bed the scent of the clean bedding wafts into her nose. _Huh,_ she thinks. _The detergent isn’t as nice as I thought._

By the time Clint’s out of the shower, the bed is made and she can help tuck him in like a child. She pulls the coverlet up and over him and he reaches out a hand to grab her wrist.

“Hey Kate. Katie. Katie you’re so good. This is so good. Be good to Barney, he’s my brother. He’s good too.”

“Go to sleep, Hawkeye, you’re trashed,” she murmurs. “Tell me things in the morning.”

He squeezes her wrist softly before letting it go and then curls into a ball, pulling the covers half over his head.

Barney gives her a look and she gestures him down the stairs firmly.

She waits the approximately three minutes it’ll take to get Clint to sleep (he can drop off anywhere, and he’s faster when he’s drunk) and then she’s up in Barney’s face.

“Ok look,” she hisses. “You have clearly done that before -- whether for him or some other drunk asshole I don’t know and don’t care -- but if you make it easier for him to fuck up his life here I am gonna shoot you in the knee.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Katie--”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” she snaps.

He raises his hands placatingly but his gaze is cold. “Oookay. Anyway, doesn’t seem to me like you were doing such a hot job of keeping him steady. You want my help with him, you got it, but you give me attitude and I’m gonna get him somewhere safe whether you like it or not.”

She’s angry, suddenly. White-hot, hissing-cat _raging_ that this asshole has the nerve to walk in out of nowhere and tell her how to take care of her **_best goddamn friend_**. But she pulls together all the little scraps of grownup she’s earned so far and says, “Fine.”

Barney looks genuinely taken aback, like he thought he was going to have to fight her for Clint. Like Clint is some damsel in distress and not just… having a bad couple of nights. Weeks. Okay, months.

“Even as drunk as he is, he clearly trusts you. You stay, you help. Sleep on the couch, sleep on the floor, I don’t fucking care. Tonight, you can babysit. I’m--” She sneaks a guilty glance up to the loft, and hesitates for a second. “I’m going back to my place.”

She looks at him challengingly, and he just nods. “Deal,” he says. “Come back tomorrow…. and bring food. If this is anything like the last time, he’ll need it.”

She shakes his hand, like sealing a business deal, gathers her jeans up from where they’d been dropped in the kitchen, shimmies into them and her shoes and marches out the door.

(She tries not to think about “...like the last time” on her way back to her apartment.)

(She doesn’t do a very good job.)


	2. you better put your feet on the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barney

Clint didn’t ask them for help. It’s not like they need to be doing this.

But he’s still completely, earth-shatteringly, nauseatingly grateful when Barney goads him into the shower or Kate makes him eat another bowl of cereal or chicken soup or whatever.

Doesn’t stop him from going back out. Doesn’t stop him from fucking it up for them again.

He wants to be angry that they’re here instead of doing something better than wasting their time on him, but he’s just too selfish to get there.

>>\----->

It’s not like he’s stupid.

People occasionally think he’s dumber than Clint, sure. He’s not particularly well-educated, he’s not well-read (he’s barely _any_ read, thanks Pops; turns out juvenile head trauma’s bad for you), he’s well-traveled only in that he knows what a shitload of crime scenes, bus stations, and ass-end-of-nowhere combat zones look like, and he doesn’t actually give a shit about your save the whales rich guilt bullshit.

But when it comes down to getting something he ain’t supposed to have, Barney Barton is a fucking genius.

What is Barney not supposed to have? Let’s start with a beautiful, rich, talented, snarky as shit goddamn _superhero_ young enough to be his daughter who, oh, also has her head wedged so far up her own issues she can’t even see baby bro’s in love with her.

He’s not even gonna have to try on this one.

(He’s got enough residual love for his brother that trying to keep Clint from actually drinking himself into a coma this time feels almost natural, like it’s not another con. Like there’s anything in life that’s not another con.)

He’s got enough people smarts to know that playing up the concern he actually really does feel is gonna get him a lot farther with this girl than the smirk or the pool shark moves or even his knife skills. (That one gets him a lot of real interesting girls. They tend to cry a little during sex but they’ve always got good drugs.)

So he moves himself into their life.

He makes sure Clint eats, hides the Vicodin when Clint finds the vodka, and hides the vodka when Clint pulls goddamn Demerol out of somewhere. (He takes that little bottle as an enrich-Barney tax when Clint passes out. No sense wasting good shit on someone too fucking sad to even appreciate the ride.)

He makes sympathetic (but not too sympathetic) noises at Kate when she’s worried herself brittle but insists on swaggering through the bullshit.

He high-fives her when she brings home dog treats shaped like Iron Man and Clint actually smiles.

He practices giving disapproving looks when she brings home boy after boy after Eurotrash eyelinered pretty boy. He’s pretty sure he mostly just looks homicidal, but he’s also pretty sure she gets the message. The day he has to physically throw one of her little disposable hipster dicks out of the apartment is the end of that particular parade. She’d just shrugged and given him a “what can you do” look that turned into the most blatant elevator eyes he’s ever had the pleasure to be the subject of.

It doesn’t take long after that.

The first time’s in the kitchen, nasty and wet and over quicker than either of them would probably like, but hey, when it works, it works. Clint’s somewhere off being a hero so at least they can be loud.

The second through sixth times are in Kate’s bed, and kitchen, and bathroom, and front hallway, and bed again, in Kate’s unreal apartment on the UES. He’s surprised she’s not more concerned about the gossips as they walk into the building , but she assures him breezily they’ll just think he’s hired muscle.

When he’s holding her up in the shower later he’s pretty sure that’s exactly what he is.

So they go on this way for a while. They work in a weird tandem, feeding Clint and goading him to shower and dress himself and sleep in his own bed instead of propped up on the kitchen table and when it gets too much they “go out for groceries” and take a pit stop at Kate’s. They have a couple of scares when Clint goes out to do his hero bullshit with most of a 12-pack of beer on board, but he comes home every time.

They finally run out of what passes for luck in their lives the same day Kate talks him into fucking in the bathroom of the Key Food on Fulton because she doesn’t want to be out of the apartment long enough to go all the way into Manhattan and they really do need milk.

They’re walking home, a little stiff, a little ripe, but carrying actual food -- even bananas, this time, in hopes that the potassium boost will help get Clint’s system back into shape, when a goddamn Ukranian vampire materializes out of a shadowed alley.

“Hey bro, your boy, he go out a couple minutes ago, you know that? Bro, he no look so good. Maybe if he dead this time all our problems go _poof_ , you think, bro?”

Kate’s dropped the groceries and is lunging for the tracksuited asshole almost too fast for Barney to catch her. But he manages it, pushing her behind him with a grunt.

“I’ll take care of this. You go upstairs and see if he left a note.”

Her face goes mulish, all spoiled four year old, but, thank fuck, this is apparently one of the times she’s gonna let him push her around.

Barney strong-arms the tracksuit into the miniscule gap between the buildings and they have a brief conversation conducted entirely between his fist and the guy’s head. With luck, the guy won’t remember the details and they can all squeak out of this without pissing off half of the Eastern European population of Brooklyn.

It really would be less trouble if Clint were dead, but Barney’s still hoping he isn’t.


	3. in front of your eyes I'm invisible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint

He’s in a bar, he thinks, when they find him. He thinks it’s a bar, because it’s noisier than his apartment, and also his head is on a nice cool piece of counter with a smooth wooden lip that smells like years of spilled beer and whiskey. If there were peanuts it would almost smell like home.

It’s not home. He’s not actually all that sure what home is, but he’s sure there’s peanuts. And fried stuff. And Barney.

He’s in a bar and he’s as comfortable as you can get when you’ve got two black eyes and busted knuckles and maybe a cracked rib or three and you’re just trying to quietly drink yourself to death. The sharp shoulder Kate jams into his armpit to lever him upright _sucks_ and isn’t comfortable at all.

“Jeezus, Katie… what.. whatch’u doin? Tryin’a drink. Let a man drink.” He rolls his head lazily to the side until he’s mumbling loudly into her ear. “‘m a man, Katie. Katie’s man.”

He feels her shoulders tense where she’s holding him up and he frowns. He can feel his face trying to contort to express the depths of his confusion but he’s betting he just looks like an idiot. Handy, ‘cause he’s betting he _is_ an idiot.

“’d I say somethin’ wrong? What’d I fuck up this time?”

There’s a big hand on his chin, suddenly, and Barney’s there, about four inches from his nose and turning him this way and that like he’s inspecting him.

“Y’wanna check my teeth, too?” He opens his mouth wide. “—ee?” He blinks and lets his mouth relax. “’s pony’s still got some tricks left, old man. Not time for the glue yet, I think.”

He attempts an exaggerated wink and somehow everything goes dark.

“’ey who turned out th’lights? I want.. I’m not… Barney? Katie-Kate? Wass’happenin?”

“You shut your eyes, Hawkeye. Just… just keep ‘em closed and we’ll get you home.”

“Mmmm. Home.” He hums happily, but there’s a niggling doubt somewhere in the back of his brain that’s trying to make itself known.

“Hey Barn’?” he mumbles as he feels his brother’s shoulder go under his other arm and hoist him off his seat.

“Yeah, buddy.”

“’m I allowed to go home?”

He hears somebody sigh, or maybe two somebodys. Maybe he’s not supposed to ask that.

\---

When he wakes up, he’s on his couch. Or their couch. Maybe it’s Kate’s couch; he thinks she paid for it. It’s purple and soft and it smells good and he hopes right now he can avoid puking on it. He rolls over to find out whether or not his legs will hold him long enough to get him to the bathroom. Somebody’s left a big orange construction bucket next to the couch, and he figures he might as well go along with somebody else’s good idea.

He pukes until it feels like he doesn’t remember how to not puke anymore, and then he pukes a little more.

He thinks he hears angry voices from somewhere close, but he can’t quite make anything out. The voices are whisper-shouting, like his parents used to, once upon a time, and all he hears is someone say “It’s _your_ fault he’s like this.”

Just like his parents used to.

\---

The next time he wakes up, he’s still on the couch, so he figures he’s doing ok.

Then he hears it. His stupid-ass broken bed with the mattress that needs replacing is making that goddamn squeaking noise it does every time it’s getting a workout.

He can hear the noise she’s making, which isn’t a surprise, even though she’s kinda trying to keep quiet. It’s not like it’s the first time she’s brought someone here to screw in his bed. He doesn’t even think she knows she’s rubbing it in his face.

This time, though. This time he can tell that the whisper-fighting turned into whisper-fucking and that means all those other muffled noises are coming from _Barney_ and for a second he’s livid and then he realizes it’s because he’s jealous and then he realizes he’s really not sure which one he’s jealous of.

So he does the only reasonable thing he _can_ do:

He throws up again and passes back out.

\---

He wakes up again because he’s hot _oh god he’s so fucking hot_ does he have a fever? Is he fucking dying finally?

… oh, the dog’s just wedged in between him and the back of the couch. Ok.

At least the dog loves him best.

(So, ok, every time they all come in Lucky goes straight to Kate, but, well, it’s not like Clint doesn’t do the same.)

He’s hot and he’s thirsty and he aches and his head aches and his heart aches and his mouth tastes like he’s been licking dead raccoons and he could let all that go but he’s got a full bladder and even he won’t piss in a bucket full of puke in his own goddamn living room. Yeah, he’s got standards. Wouldn’t Cap be proud.

So he slowly, slowly – god, when did he become such an old man – slowly gets off the couch and makes his way up the stairs. All he wants is to do his business and maybe brush his teeth and that keeps him going past the bedroom. He doesn’t even glance in, just keeps his head down.

He takes the longest piss of his life, washes his hands, splashes some water on his face, brushes his teeth. He tries his damnedest to avoid looking in the mirror.

When he’s done, he realizes he’s going to have to go past the bed again to get back downstairs to the couch and somehow even after all the numbing and the exhaustion it still hurts. You’d think there’d be a point where it hurts so bad you finally break through to numb, kinda like going into shock. Somebody really oughta get on that. Maybe Loki’s still in the mind-erasing business. That sounds nice.

He shuffles slowly towards the stairs, every injury of the past ten years making itself known all over again. _Yeah, broken pelvis, you can shut the hell up_ , he thinks.

He’s standing at the top of the stairs when he realizes he’s still holding his toothbrush. He’s got it gripped so hard he can feel all the decorative ridges pressed up against his palm and for more than a second he wishes it were something sharper. Maybe even poisonous. Anything to distract him and keep him from standing at the bed. _I see better from a distance_ , he thinks hysterically, as his eyes dart all over the scene. Kate’s mussed hair and strong, lean shoulder and the curve of her hip and Barney’s muscular legs and his smooth, broad back with goddamn _scratch marks_ on it, old and new and all hers (he hates that he recognizes her patterns because even if his dreams come true he’ll never be able to see them on his own back).

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there – minutes, seconds, days, years – when Lucky pads up behind him and whines, nosing at the back of his knee, before trotting past easy as can be and jumping up on the bed.

Clint’s never wanted to be a dog so bad in his life. He feels like that’s saying something.

He’s so dizzy with want and misery for a second he just closes his eyes and that’s no better, because he’s suddenly hit with a flash of standing outside his parents’ bedroom in the middle of the night, hand dripping with blood because he was hungry and wanted a snack and nobody was around to cut his apple for him. He figured it wasn’t so hard, but it _was_ and he tried but he fucked it up and now he’s bleeding and he’s gonna get the hiding of his life tomorrow because he dripped blood on the floors and he knows from experience it’s hard as hell to get clean.

“Clint, Jesus, get in the fucking bed and we’ll figure it out tomorrow before anybody finds out,” say memory-Barney and real-Barney together.

He opens his eyes and – huh. He must have been lost in his head for longer than he thought, because Kate’s wearing a tank top now, and Barney’s got his shorts on, and they’re both sitting up in the bed, looking expectant and sort of disappointed. He feels his heart warm a little. At least if they’re disappointed they expect something out of him, still.

He makes his way to the bed as well as he can, then stands at the foot looking lost.

“For fuck’s sake, Hawkeye, I know you know how to get into your own bed,” Kate chastises, not unkindly. She nudges Lucky to the side with one foot, and makes room for Clint between her and Barney.

He crawls in on elbows and knees, sparking a weird sense memory of his first mission into enemy territory: exhilarating and terrifying and awful all at once.

He collapses in the center of the bed. He’d pull his knees up and curl into a ball but his legs are too damn long and there wouldn’t be enough room for Kate to lie there comfortably. So he just closes his eyes and pretends to pass out again. It’s easier.

\---

He wakes up again, hours later, feeling almost human. Kate and Barney are both asleep, if the soft vibration of snores behind him and the slow, steady rise and fall of her ribcage in front of him are true. He hasn’t felt this comfortable in years: he can’t get out of bed without waking them up, so he doesn’t even have a chance to fuck something up.

He reaches out a cautious hand to rest it on her hip, chaste and respectful, and even in her sleep she swats him away.

He’d be more upset if he didn’t think it was the right thing to do.


End file.
